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Chapter One

"Hey, what the hell do you guys think you're doing?"

One hour after that fateful outburst--and for the second time that evening--Kate Sullivan was in the company of a man carrying a gun. Escorted by an armed police officer, she wearily trudged up the steps of the District Headquarters of Boston's Twelfth Precinct. Gazing up at the Precinct's imposing Gothic-like entrance, Kate rolled her eyes, clenched her fists and felt like emitting yet another scream. Ix-nay that impulse. Her last impetuous holler had almost cost her her life. Another one just might get her committed to a loony bin. At this point, Police Headquarters was preferable.

Besides, the answer to her ridiculous question had been blatantly obvious. Those guys had known exactly what they were doing. Car thieves steal cars. Simple objective; obvious implementation. She's the one who'd best figure out objectives before opening her big mouth. And just to emphasize who'd been the bigger fool in that encounter, who was the one with the armed police escort? Not the criminals: Kate Sullivan.

Upon entering the station, Kate was immediately assailed by the sight, smell and sounds of what seemed to be hundreds of people milling aimlessly about. The noise level and commotion were comparable to that of the Arrivals Terminal at Logan Airport. Following closely on the heels of the young officer, it was tempting to grab hold of his coattails. Despite looking barely old enough to vote, at least he was a reassuring link to law and order.

Plowing through the crowd, the officer glanced back with a sympathetic smile. "Still with me? How're you doing?"

"Just fine."

This was a bald-faced lie. Still shaking from having thwarted the attempted car theft, Kate's teeth chattered from the bone deep chill of having being out in the rain for the past hour. Her knees and the palms of her hands were raw and bleeding from a hasty but successful "get-a-way" crawl. It was amazing how swiftly all dignity and concern for appearance fled when looking down the barrel of a gun.

The journey through the maze of humanity ended at a high wooden counter running the entire width of the room. The sheet of bulletproof glass protecting the officers behind the counter was not reassuring. Just how often did gun-toting criminals manage to get this far?

"If you'll just wait here, Ms. Sullivan, I'll check in with the desk sergeant and be right back."

Left stranded, Kate was momentarily distracted from her own dilemma as her professional journalist's eye took in the whole mad, chaotic scene. It would certainly make for a great human interest article: "An Evening At The Twelfth Precinct: Crime And Its Victims."

Judging from the conversation to her immediate left, she was standing by a group of women about to be booked for soliciting. Discreetly studying their hair, make-up and clothing, Kate quickly concluded she lacked the prerequisites for such a time-honored profession. With shoes, she was a mere five feet, three inches. These ladies topped her by a good two or three inches. The spiked heels gave them a distinct advantage.

Not only was her height off the mark, but her short auburn curls failed to meet the standards of their elaborate hairstyles. It obviously took more than a quick blow dry to create the desired effect.

She was definitely minus a few other obligatory accessories as well: not enough mascara, no false eyelashes, no mini-skirt and above all, no cleavage. Her silk blouse was soaked from the unexpected rainfall and revealed just about everything she owned, but there wasn't a whole lot there to begin with. One of those wire push-up bras might make up for the deficiency in that department.

Basically, the only thing she had in common with these women was the fact they were all female and had all been caught in the rain. Despite the attempts at glamour, the hookers looked every bit as bedraggled as she did. Besides, at the age of thirty it was a little late to consider a change of profession. The pay might be better, but the hours and the clientele were a definite minus.

Her scrutiny of the "ladies" took on a whole new dimension when Kate was suddenly shoved into the reluctant embrace of one of the better endowed members. Face planted against two huge but unyielding breasts (implants?), Kate mumbled a hasty "sorry." Stepping back, she turned and caught the eye of the culprit--a tall, broad shouldered man whose response to her accusing stare was a roguish grin and a wink.

"Sorry, sweetheart. The place is sure hopping tonight."

The shove she could handle. The "sweetheart" bit coming from a total stranger--albeit a good-looking one--was a bit much. The guy was handsome in a rugged sort of way, but judging from the slightly crooked nose and a few scars by the jaw line, looked like he'd been on the losing end of a few fights.

Thoroughly drenched from the downpour, water dripped from his dark, rumpled hair and his black pin-striped suit was soaked. He seemed oblivious to his condition, was too preoccupied trying to impress her with his gorgeous smile. Kate's response was cool; she'd encountered the type before. This was the kind of guy who knew his smile was gorgeous. The self-assured, condescending flirt.

He gave her another wink before turning the charm on the other women. They responded with flirtatious smiles and laughter. From the familiar way they traded jibes with the man, Kate pegged him as the pimp coming to the rescue of his harem.

Although that assumption didn't quite fit. She'd always assumed pimps wore more flamboyant outfits, purple satin or maybe something in silk from an Italian designer if they were more upscale. But then what did she know? Maybe dark pinstripes were de rigueur for your self-respecting pimp on the street.

Despite the warm reception elsewhere, he hadn't given up on her. Reaching over and lifting one of her damp curls, he grinned. "I'll bet you're just gorgeous when you're not looking like a drowned rat."

Don Juan had resorted to insults. Before she could come up a scathing retort, he'd stepped back and was boldly appraising her face and figure. The quick verdict was delivered with a wicked gleam in his dark blue eyes. "But maybe a little too short for my liking."

The "ladies" laughed but Kate fumed. This guy was either under the impression she was a new recruit to the group or behaved like this with any female who crossed his path. Either scenario pissed her off. And how could he possibly mistake her for a prostitute? She'd just given herself a failing grade in that test. Either the standards had fallen these days or the rain was the great equalizer. They all looked like hell.

Assuming her own interpretation of a hooker's stance--hands on hips and giving him the once over--Kate uttered her first words to the obnoxious stranger. "Doesn't really matter what you like, sweetheart. When I'm off duty, I do the choosing, and I'd have to classify you as a paying customer only."

"Never had to pay for it before."

You couldn't even insult this guy. He was still smiling, apparently waiting for a comeback. Fine, she'd deliver one.

"Well, I guess you wouldn't have to pay, what with having your own private harem."

Finally, he looked somewhat taken aback. This insult had him stumped. His attempt at a reply was cut off by a gruff voice and a nudge to his shoulder. "Hey, Romeo. Give the ladies a break and let's get going."

With a quick nod to the officer who'd spoken and a last perplexed look at Kate, "Romeo" took off down the hallway.

Kate smiled for the first time since entering the station. She'd ended up having the last word.

"Ms. Sullivan?"

The baby-faced police officer had returned to escort her down the same hallway to a small interrogation room. Other than a scarred and chipped Formica table and four chairs, the room was bare and reeked of stale cigarette smoke. The paint job was standard issue beige with a few black scuff marks on the wall to add a dash of color. Remnants of fights? Resisting officers? She'd had enough violence for one night. She was a victim: she would behave. Co-operation was the name of the game.

Another young officer joined them. This latest embodiment of Boston's finest was bursting at the seams of his uniform. Neither officer offered much in the way of reassurance. Where were the seasoned pros?

As they took her statement, they pressed for details in her description of the two men who'd been about to take off in her car. Kate had no problem obliging--the face of the man who'd held her at gunpoint was still vivid.

"The man with the gun had short black hair, brown eyes, a small scar on his chin and was around five feet, eight inches tall."

As she rhymed off the list, Kate noticed the two officers' increasing interest and exchange of knowing looks.

"What? What is it?" she asked eagerly. "Do you recognize him?"

Ignoring her questions, they continued bombarding her with their own regarding the second man. Kate slumped back in the unyielding plastic chair, still willing to cooperate but a little ticked off at their unwillingness to share information. She wasn't used to being on the receiving end of questions being asked.

"I didn't see him as clearly or for very long. All I remember is that he was taller, maybe six feet, and that his hair was long--about shoulder length. And one other thing: he had a big nose."

"Did either of the men say anything? Could you tell if they had an accent?"

Kate nodded and proceeded to imitate the gunman shouting to his accomplice.

"Outta here, now," she grunted in a deep voice, doing her best to mimic the slight Italian accent.

Her performance prompted another exchange of looks.

"I think we should get Michael in here." The chubby officer's voice had raised an octave in his excitement. "These guys sound familiar."

Baby-face nodded. "We'll have to catch him before he leaves the station. I saw him earlier but he's on his way out to another homicide."

"This Michael." Kate interrupted. "He investigates murders? I thought we were dealing with car thieves."

Once again she was ignored and once again left on her own as they took off in pursuit of "Michael." With a weary sigh, Kate shoved aside empty coffee cups and laid her head in her arms on the scratched, dented table. Visions of home and a hot, soothing bath in which to nurse her wounds were put on hold.

Within minutes the officers were back, minus their prey, but with explicit instructions from Detective Michael O'Connor that Kate was not to leave until he'd returned from the homicide scene and had a chance to question her. Apparently Kate's recent adventure had taken place in the same vicinity as the murder and there was a possible connection.

Kate rolled her eyes. "More coffee and a blanket, please. And a bed if you have one."

Her requests granted--all but the bed--she was abandoned again.

* * *

Fifteen minutes of solitude in the interrogation room were all she could take. Wrapped in the scratchy wool blanket and ignoring the curious stares, Kate tracked down the wunderkind officer.

"Bored?" He greeted her forlorn figure with a grin.

"Big time."

"Okay. Hang out with me for a while."

For the next hour and a half Kate was his shadow, watching him fill out police reports, take fingerprints and deal with the anxious relatives of those being booked for a variety of petty crimes. Finally the desk sergeant alerted them to the imminent arrival of Detective O'Connor. Rounding up the other officer, they returned to the interrogation room. And waited.

Twenty minutes later, three restless individuals perked up at the sound of voices in the hall. Two men entered the room. Kate, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Detective O'Connor, was dumbfounded to see the pimp she'd encountered earlier. Murder, car thieves, pimps? How far did this possible connection go?

The tall, distinguished black man accompanying the pimp must be Detective O'Connor.

Not so. Extending a hand and introducing himself, he immediately put Kate's confusion to rest.

"Ms. Sullivan? I'm Detective Jim Pearson and this is my partner, Detective Michael O'Connor. Thanks for waiting."

To give Detective O'Connor his due, he looked suitably abashed as he extended his own hand to Kate. "Ms. Sullivan and I ran into each other earlier this evening and I believe I owe her an apology. I made quite an error in judgment as to her reason for being at the station."

The now familiar charming smile accompanied this attempt to make amends for having mistaken Kate for a prostitute. And he was holding her hand in his large, firm grip just a fraction longer than necessary.

"That's quite all right, Detective O'Connor. No need to apologize," Kate replied, matching him tit for tat in the charm department. "I thought you were a pimp."

This brought hoots of laughter from Detective Pearson and the other officers, while Michael's face went red. He released her hand and managed a small smile.

"Well, then, Ms. Sullivan, I guess we're even."

Kate nodded sweetly with a brief smile of her own.

Introductions and mistaken identities dispensed with, Detective O'Connor sat across from Kate and proceeded to grill her about the encounter with the car thieves. This was the seasoned pro.

"You left your office at approximately what time?"

"Eight o'clock."

"And you're a journalist with the local newspaper?" he asked, referring to the notes taken by the young officers.

"Does my profession matter?"

Gone was the flirtatious charm. Detective O'Connor's blue eyes were solemn as he regarded Kate. "Hopefully, in this case, yes. As a journalist, you may have an eye for more significant detail."

Kate nodded. "I work for the Daily Globe."

"So, at eight o'clock in the evening, in the pouring rain, you proceeded alone to a deserted parking lot." It was a statement, not a question and the disapproval in his voice was unmistakable.

"I've used the same parking lot for the past five years and never encountered any danger before."

"You've been lucky," he muttered, glancing back at the notes. "It's not a great scenario for a woman alone."

"It's not an area known for crime, and I don't need a lecture on what I should and shouldn't do," Kate retorted. Her first impression had been correct. He was one of those condescending males.

Detective O'Connor looked up and gazed at her thoughtfully, running a hand through his already tousled hair. No lecture was forthcoming. He just shook his head.

"Okay, let's just get on with it."

"Yes, let's."

"All right, then. We've got your description of the two men and it's good. I'd just like you to go over what actually happened when you met up with them."

Kate sat up straighter, eager to get this over with. "I didn't see them as I approached. A parked van was blocking my view."

"You were approaching the rear of your vehicle?"

"Yes. I was about three feet from the trunk of the car when I noticed one man was already in the driver's seat and the other just about to enter the passenger side."

"You were that close before you noticed people in and around your car?"

Kate bit her lip to keep from shouting.

"It was raining, it was dark and I had other things on my mind." Her voice rose despite the efforts at control. "And at this point, what does it matter where I was when I spotted them?"

"Okay, okay." O'Connor shrugged. "Continue."

"I shouted something like, 'Hey, what do you guys think you're doing?' and one guy took off. The other man got--"

"Didn't it occur to you to take off?"

"Not really. I guess I was so surprised to see them that--"

"Or that they might be armed?"

Kate frowned at this third interruption, knowing damn well she should have run the minute she'd spotted the thieves. But hindsight was great. At the time, seeing two men about to take off in her car, she'd blurted out the first thing that entered her head. What did this guy want? An apology? "Are you going to continue lecturing me, or may I proceed?"

"Please do." The patronizing grin appeared. Kate chose to ignore it.

"The other man got out of the driver's seat, stood by the open door and aimed the gun at me. The only thing he said was, 'Keys'. He just assumed it was my car and I figured there wasn't any point in pretending it wasn't."

"Good thinking."

Kate checked for sarcasm, but found none.

"I threw the keys and they landed on the other side of the car door."

"Lousy aim or deliberately?"

"Lousy aim."

This admission brought forth a chuckle from Detective O'Connor. Although he ticked her off, Kate had to admit that when he smiled, and his blue eyes were friendly, he was actually quite good looking. In fact, extremely attractive. Too bad he was also an irritating chauvinist. She should have lied and said her aim was deliberate.

"Have you finished laughing?" she inquired politely.

"Sorry."

He didn't look the slightest bit sorry.

"You're harassing the witness, Michael," Detective Pearson pointed out. "Let me take over."

Kate shot him a grateful look and continued, addressing her remarks to Detective Pearson. "He indicated that I should pick up the keys. I guess he didn't want to get them himself because he had to keep an eye on me. As I walked by him, he grabbed my purse. That's when I noticed the scar on his chin." Kate paused, remembering his face. "He's a nasty, cruel-looking man."

Pearson nodded. "He's not a very pleasant person."

"When I'd passed by him and was on the other side of the door, I bent down to get the keys. That's when I decided that instead of just handing them over, I'd make a run for it."

"Wasn't he aiming the gun at you at this point?" Pearson asked.

"He had the gun in his left hand," Kate explained. "And never actually turned around. He just turned his head to watch me, so the gun was still on the other side of the door. He would have had to shoot through the door or walk around it. I suppose he figured I was too scared to try and get away."

Pearson turned to Michael. "Left-handed."

Michael nodded, both men pleased with this further bit of identification.

Kate continued after another nod from Pearson. "I also considered the fact that he might shoot me even if I did give him the keys. Not only did he look mean, he also looked sort of panicked. So as I bent down to pick them up, I gave a big shove to the door with my hip, slamming it against him. He yelled, the gun went off, and I threw myself on my hands and knees and crawled over to another car."

Michael had been listening with his chair tilted back and his head resting against the wall. The chair suddenly met the floor with a loud crash as he shot forward, trying to stifle his laughter at the image of Dominick Palone being thwarted by Ms. Sullivan's shapely butt.

Kate couldn't even pretend she hadn't noticed. Everyone turned to look at him, and the two young officers were smirking too. My God, he was infuriating. If it had been just the two of them in this room, she'd have walked out.

"And?" Detective Pearson prompted. At least he wasn't smiling.

"He shouted again, and I figured he'd probably come after me. I started running toward the street, hoping someone would be there. That's when I heard the whistle."

The young officer who'd brought Kate to the station spoke up. "The guy blowing the whistle was the night watchman from her office. Apparently he was outside having a puff on his cigar when he heard the shouts and the gunshot, blew on his whistle and then put in the call to the police. The guys took off when they heard the whistle, but he didn't get a look at them." He turned to Kate. "Give the detectives your imitation of the gunman's shout after the whistle blew."

Kate obliged. Detectives Pearson and O'Connor reacted just as the two young officers had. Her imitation was quite a hit around here.

It was now time for them to explain why she was still at the station. Detective O'Connor, back to his serious cop routine, did the honors. Evidently, just prior to the attempted theft of Kate's car, a fatal shooting had taken place in the apartment building adjacent to the parking lot. The call came in about the homicide soon after the night watchman's call regarding Kate's encounter. The murder had all the markings of a mob hit, and Kate's description of the car thieves fit the profile of two mob members wanted in connection with two other hits.

Kate struggled to make sense of this. There had to be a mistake. "Why would mobsters be stealing my car? Aren't they pros at this sort of thing? Wouldn't they have a getaway car waiting for them?"

Since she had the smarts to think of that angle on her own, Michael gave her the brutal, honest answer. Better she know exactly what was involved. "From the looks of the crime scene, I don't think the hit went as smoothly as planned. Things were a bit messy. We presume it took longer than anticipated and that their driver took off, figuring something went wrong."

Michael saw Kate's body tense as she absorbed the implication of what he'd just said. A small smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose stood out in relief as her face paled. Her green eyes darted anxiously from one detective to the other.

"You're sure?"

"Ninety percent sure."

Kate slumped back in her chair, suddenly conscious of her fatigue, hunger, cold and minor injuries. Unwilling to deal with the thought of murder and how close she'd come to being a victim of the mob, Kate dealt with the present. "My hands and knees hurt."

Michael took her outstretched hands in his own and saw the raw scrapes. Bits of gravel were imbedded in the torn skin. Her knees were in the same condition. Belatedly, he became aware of Kate's general disheveled appearance. Huddled under a dingy blanket--confiscated from God knows where--she was shivering, either from fear or cold. Probably both.

Furious, both with himself and the others for not noticing before, he turned to the two young officers. "What the hell's wrong with you guys? Get someone in here to take care of her hands and knees. Get her some dry clothes and something to eat."

Crouching in front of Kate, Michael studied her face, hoping his prime witness wasn't about to go into shock. "Ms. Sullivan?"

Kate reluctantly met his eyes. She was not the least bit comforted by the warmth and concern she saw, nor by his gentle tone of voice. Beyond caring if she sounded like a plaintive child, she whispered, "I want to go home now."

"You can't," he shook his head. "I need you here just a little while longer. We'll get you fixed up and comfortable, and you can rest on the couch in my office."

Kate was listening, but Michael wasn't certain if she understood the gravity of her current situation. And he wasn't about to tell her until her physical needs were taken care of. He left the room.

Once fed, injuries attended to, and clothed in a dry police shirt and jacket, Kate I.D.'d police mug shots and was finally taken to Detective O'Connor's office. It was another bare, dingy room without a single redeeming feature or personal touch except for a battered baseball glove lying on an old, torn leather couch. Exhausted, she lay down, using the glove as a lumpy pillow. Pushing aside the nagging feeling that there was more to this whole thing than she'd been told, Kate drifted off to sleep--the last image in her mind that of Marlon Brando as The Godfather.

* * *

Michael entered his office an hour later to find Kate sleeping and smiled at the sight of the uniform, the bandaged knees and the stocking feet. One arm dangled over the side of the couch, fingers barely protruding from the oversized shirtsleeve. Her hair had dried and Michael resisted the impulse to touch and smooth the tangled mop of curls. It was not a gesture in the line of duty.

Pulling a chair over to the couch, he sat and watched her for a moment, reluctant to put an end to her peaceful sleep.

"Ms. Sullivan?" He gently lifted the outstretched arm and placed it at her side.

Kate's eyes opened quickly. It took only seconds to recognize the Detective. She sat up slowly, regarding him with reluctance and suspicion. And perhaps with just a smidgen of sympathy. He looked exhausted. As he absent-mindedly rubbed the stubble on his cheeks with strong, lean fingers, Kate noted that each thumbnail had been bitten to the quick. Evidently the tough Detective occasionally succumbed to nerves. With his collar open, tie askew and shirtsleeves rolled up, O'Connor was no longer the dapper, laughing "pimp" she'd first encountered.

As it turned out, her eyeing him with suspicion was entirely justified. What he now had to say was every bit as disturbing as anything else she'd heard tonight. Detective O'Connor was suggesting--or rather insisting--that she be placed under police protection.

"Police protection?" Kate repeated. "What for?"

"For your own safety," O'Connor replied. "Your testimony could put these guys away on a murder rap. And that puts your life in danger."

"But that doesn't make any sense! I didn't see them murder anyone. I didn't even know about any murder until you told me."

O'Connor shrugged. "That's true, but your testimony could still convict these guys, and they know it. When you slammed that car door a bullet was fired, either at you or accidentally. We'll find the bullet and match it with the bullets recovered at the murder scene. And that will prove that the guys who tried to steal your car were the same guys who murdered someone just minutes earlier in the adjacent apartment building. Once we catch them, we'll have you as a witness and the evidence to indict them."

Kate just stared at him, dumbfounded.

"Of course," he added, "if you had actually witnessed the murder, that would be even better, but--"

"Better!" Kate exploded. "Better for who?"

Furious, she grabbed the baseball mitt and Michael instinctively ducked, figuring he was the intended target. Although she looked tempted, she just flung it to the other end of the couch.

"I apologize. I was out of line with that last remark. But, Ms. Sullivan, you have to be reasonable about this."

Kate continued to glare at him.

Well, maybe she didn't have to be reasonable, but it would make his job a hell of a lot easier. Patiently, he explained the situation again. "Once those guys eliminate you, they've eliminated the only witness who can I.D. them and place them in the vicinity of the crime scene. And keep in mind, they can I.D. you. They have your purse, know where you live, work and what you look like--"

"And you really think they'll come after me?" Kate interrupted. "That they'll figure out all that stuff about matching up the bullets?"

Michael nodded. "I told you. They're Mafia connected. Even if they don't figure it out for themselves, someone in the organization will. You can bet on it."

"And what about fingerprints in the car?"

Michael was both impressed and relieved with the question. Ms. Sullivan had the smarts to think this through. "Gloves were used at the homicide scene. But any fingerprints we find in the car will probably match those we've got on file for minor convictions these guys have."

Kate stood up and began a frantic pace about the room, feeling trapped already. Everything he said was both frightening and true.

Michael observed the pacing, trying to suppress a grin. With her tiny figure and the uniform flapping about, she looked like a curly, auburn-haired version of Charlie Chaplin. All she needed was the mustache.

"I don't want police protection, to have to hide or anything like that," she suddenly wailed. "I have a life to live, I like my privacy and, oh shit...this is just awful. I should have run when I had the chance."

Detective Pearson chose this moment to enter and was met with an angry stare from Kate. Now there were two of them to gang up on her. And Detective Pearson was every bit as persuasive and insistent as Detective O'Connor, giving her the same arguments for the necessity of police protection. It all made sickening sense.

"I really have no choice, do I?" Kate finally admitted.

Both men shook their heads.

Although accepting her immediate fate, she had one more question. With arms crossed at her chest and a stubborn tilt to her chin, she asked, "Just how long do you figure this protection will be necessary?"

Michael nodded to his partner. Pearson could tackle this one.

"It's hard to say. With your assistance, we could shorten the amount of time it takes," Jim explained. "If you agree and are willing to cooperate, we could use you as a decoy to lure them out of hiding. I doubt they'll be pulling off any more jobs or leaving town while you're still, uh..."

"Alive is the word you're looking for," Kate pointed out.

"Right. Alive." Jim shot her an admiring look. "We'd stage carefully set scenarios using you as the decoy and with your safety always in mind. You'd be well covered and protected at all times, of course."

"Of course." Kate repeated his words slowly. As she thought of the implications of the plan, her hands fell to rest lightly on her stomach.

"Are you going to be sick?" Michael asked in alarm, noting her pale face and the placement of her hands.

"No." Kate dismissed his concern with a wave.

"Ms. Sullivan, you're under no obligation to do this. We're quite capable of handling the investigation without your assistance," Michael assured her.

"What are my other alternatives?"

"We could hide you in one of our "safe" houses, or you could stay secluded in your own home with police protection," Jim replied.

"I'd be the prisoner with those alternatives."

"But you'd be minimizing the risk to your life." Michael pointed out. "I think one of those options is your best bet."

"And while my life's on hold and I'm cowering in seclusion, just how long is it going to take you to find these guys? You said they're wanted in connection with two other murders. How long have you been after them?"

"About eight months," Jim admitted reluctantly.

"I can't stay in hiding for months!"

"It shouldn't take us that long," Michael assured her. "And you'd be better off out of the way."

"Says who?" Kate turned to him in anger and frustration. "Whether I'm in a safe house or in my own home, what makes you so sure they won't find me? And if they do, they'll kill me if they're desperate enough. I end up dead or terrified to ever leave the house!"

This outburst reduced both men to a wary silence.

"Give me some time to think about this." Kate plunked herself back down on the couch, exhausted and bewildered. Aware of the two detectives watching her every move, she added in exasperation, "And without anyone staring at me."

Jim quickly grabbed a folder from the pile on the desk and studied it intently, while Michael retrieved the baseball glove and pounded it with a fist as he gazed out the window.

Kate did her best to ignore both of them and huddled in the corner of the couch, trying to figure out her next course of action. She'd landed in a beauty of a mess this time, and had no one to blame but herself and her big mouth. Life would be a lot simpler if she were just dealing with a stolen car.

Although the thought of being a decoy was terrifying, it was definitely more appealing than hiding and giving up any kind of normal life for God knows how long. Eight months and they still hadn't caught these guys? She didn't have that kind of time to put her life on hold. In approximately five months she was about to become a single parent and had hoped to have her life in order before the blessed event. It certainly wasn't in any kind of order now, and that didn't even include being the target of a mob hit.

Not only was she pregnant, but the unplanned pregnancy had been the catalyst for the break-up of her marriage. Faced with the unpleasant prospect of impending fatherhood, her charming husband Jeffrey had cold-heartedly suggested an abortion. Once recovered from her initial shock, Kate had taken a long, hard look at the man she'd married and decided he no longer existed. The break had been swift and relatively painless. Jeffrey got the investment portfolio, Kate got the house.

Which was another reason she couldn't foresee hiding for an indefinite length of time. Finances. She simply couldn't afford to "retire" right now. She'd counted on these next few months to build up a nest egg so that she could take a leave of absence when the baby was born. How many in-depth interviews and investigative articles could be written from the confines of home?

Kate sighed and stretched her legs down the length of the couch. In response to a discreet cough coming from the direction of the window, she turned and gave Michael an icy stare.

"I'm not finished yet."

"Take all the time you need."

"I plan to."

Resuming her concentration, Kate decided she was not about to inform the police of her pregnancy, since they would probably eliminate the decoy scenario from her limited choices if they knew. Given the fact her doctor had said both she and the baby were healthy and strong and that she was well past the threat of an early miscarriage, and that Detective Pearson had promised she would be well protected, Kate figured being used as a decoy was her best option. No matter which option she chose, her life was in danger. The advantage to the decoy set-up was the fact it could all be resolved sooner and she could participate rather than living in constant fear and seclusion.

Time to end the suspense. Kate swung her legs off the couch and stood up. Both men promptly stopped what they were doing and looked at her anxiously.

"I agree to be a decoy," she announced calmly, far more calmly than she actually felt. "Anything to get this over with and get on with my life. But I insist on final veto power over any crazy scheme you come up with."

"Are you sure?" asked Michael.

"Yes, I'm sure," she replied, irritated by the question. What did he think she'd been doing for the past five minutes? Checking her nails? Judging from his tone of voice and the expression on his face, Kate figured Detective O'Connor wasn't too keen on her decision. Probably thought she couldn't handle it.

Michael shrugged. "Well, then, I guess we start making plans. You're quite a girl, Ms. Sullivan."

Big mistake. Kate turned on him, furious. "Girl? I may be a decoy, a reluctant witness and a marked woman, but I am not a girl."

Michael raised his arms in mock surrender. "No offense intended. I promise not to say it again."

"Make sure you don't."

* * *

Kate curled up on the couch again while the two detectives worked out the arrangements for her safekeeping. From the gist of their conversation, it was obvious that O'Connor and Pearson were arguing about who would take on the job of guarding her. Their voices lowered in a futile attempt to keep her from overhearing. She simply listened more attentively.

At this point, Kate really had no preference. She figured either man could do the job, although Detective Pearson did seem the calmer, more stable of the two. O'Connor's cocky manner and attitude toward women were hard to take, and so was the fact that she found him attractive despite the attitude. Kate dismissed this concern as irrelevant, given her present condition and circumstances. No man in his right mind was about to become involved with her, which is exactly how she wanted it. Conversation and interaction could be kept to a minimum.

It soon became apparent that Michael was losing the battle and was going to end up with the honor of being Kate's bodyguard. Pearson was pointing out that he had a family to consider and was better off doing the paperwork at the station and the legwork on the streets.

"Not to mention the fact that my undercover abilities as Ms. Sullivan's bodyguard would be somewhat compromised by the color of my skin," he said gleefully. "Or had you ceased to notice?"

"I notice, I notice." Michael scowled, glancing in Kate's direction to see how much of this she was taking in. Obviously enough, since she returned his look with another icy stare.

"Great, it's settled then," Pearson announced. Smiling at Michael's morose expression, he added smugly, "And I'd just like to point out that staying put for a while will be good for you, Michael. Admittedly, it's quite a change in your routine and will cut into your active social life, but consider it an opportunity to get some rest. You could certainly use some, and so could all those women."

Again, Michael glanced quickly at Kate. The reference to his personal life wasn't going over very well. She was on her feet, fists clenched.

"May I point out that while you two have been arguing as to who has to protect me, I don't care to have either one of you around. But I have no choice in the matter."

Both men looked contrite, although Kate doubted Michael's sincerity.

She continued her tirade, directing her fury at him. "And as to you needing a break from your active lifestyle, I'd like to make it perfectly clear that while you may have to reside in my home, you will stay clear of me. I won't be requiring your services in any capacity except as a bodyguard."

Michael felt it time to reassert some authority, which was on a sharp decline in the face of Kate's wrath.

"Ms. Sullivan, let there be no misunderstanding. This is my job, and I'll behave like a perfect gentleman."

She got the last word anyway. "You won't have any choice in the matter."

* * *

At midnight, Kate was taken to an unmarked police car for the journey home. Michael heaved two huge suitcases and a bag containing her wet clothes into the trunk and joined her in the backseat.

Nodding in the direction of the trunk, she asked, "Just how long do you plan on staying?"

"Equipment," he replied tersely. "I haven't even got any personal belongings yet."

The next ten minutes of the drive were made in tense silence, which Kate finally ended.

"I feel like a prisoner already," she said glumly, eyeing the protective barrier between the driver and the backseat.

"Well, I'm sitting back here with you," Michael pointed out. "And neither one of us has much choice in the matter."

So he felt like a prisoner too. Good. He was also very restless--had been since the moment he'd entered the car. Perhaps this whole scheme was going to be just as hard on him as it was on her.

Michael was actually trying to accommodate his long legs in the cramped quarters of the back seat. Leaning forward to pound on the glass barrier, and shouting at the driver to move the front seat up, his thigh touched Kate's. She flinched and made a deliberate show of moving away.

"Ms. Sullivan, I accidentally touched your leg." He shot her a look of exasperation. "Believe me, if I was ever to make a move on you, you'd know it."

"I'm sure I would. Your moves are probably as subtle as your mouth."

Things were not off to a good start. Michael figured he could grin and bear it, or try to ease the strain. He chose the latter.

"Ms. Sullivan, why don't we call a truce? Instead of thinking of yourself as a prisoner, how about considering yourself a partner?"

Kate looked over to see if he was serious. "Don't underestimate me," she cautioned.

Michael grinned. "I'd never underestimate anyone who'd just successfully tackled the mob."

He was rewarded with the first genuine smile he'd seen from Kate that night, and it was a beauty--lit up her whole face. Maybe this assignment wouldn't be so bad after all. Let her think she was a partner and he had it made.

Chapter Two

The driver let Kate and Michael off at a side street. In silence, they approached her house from the lane way backing on to the rear of the properties. They were almost to the low picket fence of her yard when Kate, leading the way, came to a sudden halt to voice her bewilderment as to why she was sneaking into her own home.

"Don't we want them to know where I am?" she whispered.

Pulling back to avoid a collision at the unexpected stop, Michael smashed his left knee with one of the suitcases. Grimacing in pain, he replied through clenched teeth. "Yes, we want them to know but not at this particular moment. I don't want you picked off before we've had a chance to get this whole thing underway."

The thought of being "picked off" and his matter-of-fact way of suggesting the possibility effectively silenced Kate. Obviously the brilliant Detective O'Connor had it all figured out and would be making damn sure she remained alive to ensure the success of the investigation. Waving aside his offer of assistance Kate climbed over the fence with all the dignity she could muster considering the fact she was holding rather than wearing her skirt.

When they came to the back porch Michael insisted on going in alone. "You stay right here," he ordered in a whisper and with an unmistakable 'I dare you to object' look on his face.

Without hesitation, Kate took the dare. "Fine, but aren't you even going to ask if I have an extra key hidden somewhere? And wouldn't it make more sense if I went with you? I'm more likely to notice if anything's been disturbed."

Michael plunked himself down on the porch steps, head in hands. His knee was throbbing and if she kept this up his head soon would be. Why couldn't Ms. Sullivan be the frightened, subservient type; willing to obey his orders, no questions asked? Letting out a deep breath, he lifted his head. Still dressed in the police uniform, Kate stood clutching her bag of clothes, waiting for his answer with a tentative but eager smile. Eager to be of help, which he didn't need nor want. It was hard getting pissed off at someone who looked so damned cute, but she was making it easier by the minute.

"Ms. Sullivan, I'm not checking the place out for a possible robbery. I'm checking for any trap that may have been set."

Her eyes grew wide. "As in bomb?"

"Yeah. As in bomb, booby-trap, trip wire..."

His voice trailed off as Kate's eyes grew even bigger with fear. As infuriating as she was, Michael felt a twinge of guilt. Things were bad enough without emphasizing the danger in her own home. Not only did he feel guilty, he also felt the ridiculous urge to offer a reassuring hug. He was really losing it--not only his patience, but his mind. She'd slap his face the minute he touched her. Forget the goodwill gestures. Giving his head a shake, Michael stood up and simply said, "So stay put."

He'd managed to climb just two steps before a gentle tug to his jacket had him bowing his head and holding back a curse. My God, she never gave up.

"Detective O'Connor, I understand the part about checking the house, but what about the key?"

Michael slowly turned his head, both hands clutching the railing. "I assumed, Ms. Sullivan, that we didn't have a key since your purse was stolen. And I'm quite capable of opening a locked door without a key."

Kate met his look of exasperation with one of her own and resisted the urge to shove him from behind. He was using that tone of voice again, as though speaking to an idiot. And just who was the idiot? So what if he could open the door without a key? Why go to all that trouble if one was available?

"Well, la-de-da," she drawled, not at all impressed with his reputed break and enter skills. Reaching below the bottom step, she lifted a loose board and handed him the key, receiving a gruff thanks for her efforts.

Kate smiled smugly as Michael inserted the key and turned the knob.

He gave his final orders. "I'm still going in alone. You stay right here 'til I give you the okay. Got it?"

Michael glanced back, waiting for a reply. It didn't come. Kate was silent, distracted by and admiring the gorgeous profile he'd just presented. With that determined set to his jaw and mouth, the high cheekbones and the scowl on his face, Michael looked like a fierce warrior prepared for battle.

"Well?"

He was still waiting for a reply. Kate quickly nodded, embarrassed to be caught daydreaming while Detective O'Connor was poised to enter a potentially dangerous situation. He drew his revolver from the shoulder strap inside his jacket and this time, Kate was impressed. Shivering in the damp night air and with her heart pounding, she watched Michael disappear into the darkness of the kitchen. He seemed so certain that if any danger existed, it was inside the house. But what if those men were hiding out here, waiting for the opportunity to get her alone, to shoot her? Kate shut her eyes and her body tensed in anticipation of the sound of gunfire.

The nerve-wracking silence was suddenly shattered by a loud crash and a blood-curdling yell from in the house. Kate hesitated only seconds before grabbing a pair of garden shears and racing inside. Detective O'Connor hadn't said anything about not coming to his rescue.

She found Michael lying flat on his back in the front hallway, the overturned catch-all table beside him. The culprit was mewing and prancing at his feet. Flicking on the hall light and grabbing Furball, Kate knelt by Michael, panicked at the thought of her protector rendered useless by her crazy sky-diving cat.

"Detective O'Connor?" Tentatively, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, God, please don't be unconscious."

Michael groaned and opened his eyes to find Kate peering anxiously above him. She was so close he could see tiny flecks of gold in her green eyes, could have counted the freckles on her nose. He gave a rueful smile. "I'm not unconscious, just stunned." Catching a glimpse of the garden shears, the smile disappeared and he groaned again. "Please put those away, I can't take anymore."

Kate hastily put them aside. Michael sat up, gently rubbing the back of his head.

"What the hell was that?"

She bit her lip and looked down at Furball.

"A bloody cat?"

"I forgot to warn you about him," she said in a small voice.

He stood up, still massaging his head and glanced up the stairway. "That creature literally flew through the air and landed on my head. I slipped on this damn rug," he said in disgust, kicking it for emphasis, "and bashed into the table on my way to the floor. You don't need a bodyguard, I do."

Kate wisely remained silent and began straightening the rug. As Michael righted the table, Furball padded over to his leg and began purring.

"He likes you," Kate said, amazed. The aloof and independent stray she'd taken in a year ago had never shown her this kind of affection.

"Great." Michael eyed the cat with suspicion. He would have given it a swift kick had Kate not been looking. "Any other surprises in store, Ms. Sullivan? A guard dog in the basement? A poisonous snake in the bathroom?"

Kate shook her head and steered the conversation away from the topic of animals. "Any sign of anyone having been here?"

"Not so far and since I just made enough noise to wake the dead I doubt anyone's in hiding." He surveyed the now well lit room. "Now that you're in here, do you notice anything?"

"Not a thing."

Both the living and dining rooms looked undisturbed, cushions still plump on the couch and the usual clutter on the coffee table familiar and comforting. Together they made a tour of the upstairs and found nothing. Kate let Michael investigate the basement on his own; dark and dingy, it wasn't appealing at the best of times.

"Done and all clear," he announced, entering the kitchen and joining Kate at the pine table.

Resting her elbows on the table and her head in her hands, she nodded wearily.

Michael smiled in sympathy. She looked beat. "If it's any comfort, there's been an unmarked police car parked out on the street since we figured out your connection with these guys."

"Good," she smiled in return, although not at all reassured. Anyone could have come in the back way. They did. "Before I go to bed, I have a few questions."

"Shoot." He grinned. "Bad choice of words."

Kate wondered how he maintained his level of energy, let alone his sense of humor. He must be as exhausted as she was--probably more so. Detective Pearson mentioned earlier that he and Michael had been up most of the previous night working on another case. Maybe this was all an act to prove he had more endurance and he'd collapse the minute she was gone. Fine. After the questions, they could both collapse.

"About my job--"

"That's all been taken care of." Michael sat straighter in his chair, smiling and looking very pleased with himself.

"What do you mean, it's been taken care of?" Kate eyed him suspiciously.

"We've been in touch with your boss at The Globe and it's all settled. You can work at home for the duration."

"Anything else you've done without consulting me?"

At her tone of voice, the smile left his face. He'd pissed her off again.

"Well, we thought it would be helpful to report your credit cards stolen and put the companies on the alert on the off chance they're used."

"And just how did you happen to know which credit cards I own?"

"We ran a computer check on you," he admitted reluctantly, figuring this was going to push her over the edge. "It's perfectly legal."

"Legal?" She was off the chair, fists clenched and eyes blazing with fury. "It's an invasion of my privacy! I assume you now know every personal detail about my life? My date of birth, marital status, credit rating...?"

Michael nodded. Although he'd have preferred she take the news more calmly, it was actually a pleasure to see those green eyes flashing as the now familiar temper erupted. He wondered, as he had when first finding out about it, what the reason was for her impending divorce. She'd never mentioned it--they'd discovered it on the computer credit check. Ms. Sullivan had just recently established her own credit rating using her maiden name rather than her husband's surname. Her professional byline had always been Kate Sullivan but the legal entity known as Katherine Anne Cooper (a.k.a. Mrs. Jeffrey Cooper) no longer existed. Perhaps the estranged husband didn't enjoy the sight of Kate in a temper, or maybe he'd taken one too many flying leaps from Furball.

The fight seemed to have gone out of Kate. Pushing her tangled curls back from her face, she said wearily, "I'm going to bed now."

Michael stood and followed her to the stairs. "What about me?"

Turning and observing his rather forlorn figure, Kate managed a smile. "You, sir, can use the pull-out couch in the living room. I'll bring you some sheets, blankets and a pillow. I think it's best if you slept down here. My assassins are more likely to enter from the ground floor and I'd prefer you be their initial target."

Michael gave a brief shrug to indicate his agreement to the arrangement. He couldn't very well argue with her reasoning, although she could have phrased it a little differently. So why the disappointment at being relegated to the pull-out? She'd made it clear from the outset that she wasn't about to share her bed for the sheer pleasure of it. Certainly not with him anyway. Nor was she cowering in fear and in need of his reassuring physical presence. Nevertheless, he remained standing in the hallway, admiring the view as Kate climbed the stairs. He'd miss that uniform.

Kate returned with the sheets, blankets and pillow and found Michael in the kitchen installing a new phone. "Do I really want to know what you're doing and why?"

He turned with a smile. "This phone has a call display feature. If Dominick Palone and his buddy Salvatore call here we can pinpoint their location. I don't think they'd be that stupid, but, hey, you never know. I'll show you how it works in the morning and install another one upstairs."

"Fine." There was no way she could even fake an enthusiasm to match his. "I've put a new toothbrush and some blue towels out in the bathroom for you. There's only the one and it's upstairs."

"Thanks, I appreciate it." Aware that she was almost asleep on her feet, he added quickly, "I'll lock up things down here. And, Kate..." he hesitated. "Is it all right if I call you Kate?"

"Why not? You're privy to every other intimate detail of my life."

Michael laughed, ignoring the sarcasm and Kate had to smile--his laughter was deep and infectious. For a moment their eyes locked. His dark blue ones gazed at her steadily, with warmth, friendliness and with something else. Desire? An invitation?

"Sure you don't want me sleeping upstairs?" Michael asked, his voice low and husky. "You wouldn't feel safer?"

"I'm sure."

Kate retreated from his stare. She wouldn't feel safe at all, and not because of any danger to her life. In the relative safety and comfort of home, away from the tense, hectic atmosphere of the police station and groggy with fatigue, Kate felt her defenses slipping. Detective O'Connor was a good-looking, well-built male and it had been a long time since anyone had looked at her like that. The brown, tousled hair and the dark brows accentuated the blue of his eyes and his mouth was curved in a wide, knowing smile. Too knowing. His reputation was well-founded--those eyes were making an offer she had no intention of accepting.

Shaking her head in emphasis, Kate repeated her answer. "I'm quite sure."

Michael accepted the rejection with a good-natured grin. "Well, then, Kate, have a good sleep. You could use one. I'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Michael."

Michael smiled as he watched Kate leave the kitchen. Although she'd rejected his offer, she hadn't lost her temper at the fact he'd even made it. And, she'd just used his first name.

* * *

Kate lay shivering in her big four-poster despite the thickness and warmth of the duvet. Michael's body might have provided some comfort, but she'd cope with the fear on her own. Hands resting protectively on the barely discernible bulge of her tummy, she crooned softly, over and over, "It'll be all right, baby, everything will be fine."

Michael, with his gun safely tucked under the pillow, was trying unsuccessfully to find a comfortable position on a bed that left his feet dangling over the edge. Furball leapt up to join him, giving him even less room to maneuver. Despite a swift kick, the pesky cat didn't budge.

Propped up on an elbow, Michael glanced around Kate's living room. It was pleasantly decorated, comfortable looking and neat--a far cry from his cluttered and haphazardly furnished apartment. But clean sheets and comfortable surroundings weren't about to convince him of the benefits of domestic life. Pearson could harp all he liked about the advantages of settling down. It fell on deaf ears.

Michael was not only aware of the divorce statistics within his profession, he was one of the statistics. His own brief marriage ended in divorce years ago when his wife couldn't cope with his hours and the dangers involved in the job. Marriage required sacrifices he wasn't prepared to make. He liked living on the edge, with no responsibilities to anyone but himself and the job.

At age thirty-five, Michael was content to be on his own, preferring relationships that were casual and free of commitment. When the women he dated began to use the words "us" and "future" in the same sentence, he beat a hasty retreat.

He flung his head back on the pillow. Forget contemplating his choice of lifestyle, he needed some sleep. He felt movement at the end of the bed and lifted his head. Furball was purring and creeping up beside him.

"Scram."

The cat simply gave him a haughty, knowing look and curled up by his shoulder. Drifting off to sleep, Michael figured what the hell, at least someone wanted to share his bed tonight.

* * *

An hour later, Kate woke to the sound of a persistent thumping noise just below her bedroom window. Her first reaction was amazement that she'd actually managed to fall asleep. Her second was a cold, paralyzing fear. This was it. The mob was coming for her. Did Michael hear anything? There wasn't a sound coming from the living room.

Her options were limited: hope Michael dealt with it while she remained hidden under the covers listening for the dreaded footsteps in the event that he failed, or get out of bed and do something to prevent her own murder. The last option was more action-oriented and so was Kate. Grabbing her robe and the only thing remotely resembling a weapon--a shoe with a spiked heel--Kate crept downstairs, avoiding every familiar creak in the stairs.

By the time she reached the pull-out couch, the thumping noise had stopped. Nonetheless, that did little to ease the frantic pounding of her heart, nor did the sight of her bodyguard in a sound sleep. Great. Here lay the man sworn to protect her, dead to the world, with Furball curled up beside him.

Actually, Michael looked quite appealing and had circumstances been otherwise--as in no immediate threat to her life--it might have been tempting to wake him for a very different purpose. The sheets and blanket were tangled about his waist, exposing his bare, broad chest and flat, muscular stomach. One arm was flung over his head, revealing a patch of dark hair accentuated by the white skin of his inner arm. Kate leaned over the bed, so close she could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest and hear the deep, even sounds of his breathing. About to reach over and smooth back the dark, tousled hair from his forehead, her arm stopped in mid-air as the rhythmic thumping noise started up again. She quickly drew her hand back, thankful she hadn't followed through on the crazy impulse to touch him. As irresistible as he looked, this guy was supposed to be awake and dealing with this.

"Michael," she whispered softly, bending closer over his unconscious form. She would have yelled but was afraid of alerting the intruders and preferred her partner wide awake for whatever confrontation was to take place.

Michael gave a low groan and turned in his sleep toward the sound of her voice. Before Kate could whisper his name again, he'd reached over and lifted an arm, pulling her down on top of him. Caught off balance, she ended up sprawled across his chest, pinned down by two strong arms. His lips found and were moving against the soft skin of her neck.

Kate was in shock. The arrogant jerk thought she'd come crawling to his bed looking for a good time. Although tempted to bash him with the shoe, she wiggled her body so that her mouth was at his ear. Her movement prompted a moan of pleasure from Michael and an increased pressure of his arms. Shifting his body and pulling her closer, he murmured sleepily, "Glad you changed your mind."

Seething with anger, she'd have slapped his face if she hadn't needed his assistance, not to mention his gun. Settling for a fierce slug to his chest with a clenched fist, she whispered furiously, "Let go of me, you idiot. I'm not here for your body. Someone's trying to break in."

Michael was immediately awake and alert, throwing off both Kate and the covers as he leapt out of bed and grabbed the gun from under the pillow. Bending over Kate, left unceremoniously dumped on the bed, he whispered, "Where? What did you hear?"

"Shhh." Kate put a finger to her lips. "Just listen."

Michael, clad only in boxer shorts, remained hovering over Kate until he too heard the noise coming from the back of the house. His voice was tense and his face just inches from hers as he whispered again, "You stay here, and this time I mean it."

He didn't wait for a reply and silently made his way to the kitchen, leaving Kate huddled in the warmth of his bed. Since Michael had the gun and all she had was a shoe, she let him go alone. If he returned alive, she'd give him hell for sleeping through the noise and misinterpreting her appearance at his bedside.

Michael was back within minutes, grinning from ear to ear.

"Raccoons," he reported cheerfully, "rooting around in the bag of clothes you left out there and in some garbage cans. Haven't you ever heard raccoons out back before?"

"Wipe that grin off your face," Kate shot back, indignant at the accusation that she couldn't tell the difference between raccoons and assassins. She struggled to her knees on the lumpy bed, clutching her robe. "Just who should be embarrassed around here? Sure I've heard raccoons before, just never on a night when I was expecting to be murdered. You're the one who's supposed to be on the alert for strange noises and slept right through it."

At least he had the decency to look abashed, whether or not he truly felt any remorse.

"You're right, Kate. I'm sorry and embarrassed if it makes you feel any better. I guess someone else should have stayed with you 'til I'd caught up on some sleep. Thank God it was only raccoons."

She didn't say a word, just continued to stare accusingly.

"Kate?" He made a gesture of appeal and ended up waving the gun in the air. "Say something. I'm freezing and I want back in bed."

"Not a chance, buddy, and quit waving that gun around. You owe me another apology."

"Oh, yeah, that."

He had the gall to smile.

"Yeah, that. You've got some nerve thinking I'd come crawling to your bed for something other than your professional services."

"Give me a break, Kate. I'm sleeping in a strange place. Maybe I thought it was somebody else."

"Like hell."

That flimsy excuse obviously didn't cut any ice with her. Michael figured he'd try the truth. "So maybe I did think it was you, thought you might have changed your mind. Is that so unbelievable? I apologize. What would you have done if I'd come to your bed, whispering your name?"

"Screamed."

Fair enough. She certainly couldn't make her feelings any plainer than that.

"Okay, okay, I get the message." He leaned over and placed the gun back under the pillow. "Now I'm getting back into bed. You're welcome to stay, just shove over. And by the way, your knuckles are turning white."

Kate glanced down. He was referring to her fierce grip on her robe.

"I'm coming in, Kate," he warned, one knee resting on the bed. "It's your call."

She scrambled to get out of his way, nearly tripping on the length of her nightie and robe. Standing at the side of the bed, she gave him a last furious look.

"You're insufferable."

"Can't argue with you." He laughed, arms clasped behind his head. "I guess this means you won't be joining me."

She refused to dignify his last remark with a response, just turned and stomped up the stairs.

Chapter Three

The low rumbling of male voices and the clanging of extension ladders climbing the outside walls had Kate fearfully scrambling out of bed at eight o'clock the next morning. As soon as her feet hit the floor, a familiar wave of nausea had her flat on the bed again. She gave it one more try, then flopped back on the pillows in disgust. What was the point? Other than up-chucking on a would-be assassin, what did she think she was going to do?

As the familiar sounds of shingles being torn off and pounding hammers began, Kate managed a weak, relieved smile. The racket outside was simply the work crew resuming the roof repair. This latest death threat was on a par with the raccoon threat of last night. If she kept this up, she'd be a total wreck by the end of the day.

Kate propped herself up on the pillows, waiting for the nausea to subside while munching on crackers from the bedside table stash. Supposedly, this morning ritual was to have ceased once the magic three month mark had passed. She'd conveniently ignored two key words in the sentence, "on average morning sickness lasts three months" when reading the pregnancy manuals. But then, why the surprise? She'd never done anything in an average sort of way in her entire life. Witness her present predicament.

Before her stomach had a chance to settle down, panic struck again. Sitting bolt upright, cracker crumbs spilling down the front of her nightie, she suddenly remembered Michael. She hadn't warned him about the work crew and if he hadn't slept through the noise, was probably outside with his gun drawn and ready to fire.

Cautiously easing her way to a standing position, Kate waged a silent bargain with her queasy stomach. Hold off. Just give me five minutes and I'll deal with you later. She'd made it halfway down the stairs when the nausea hit again. A quick glance into the living room assured her that Michael was awake and in no particular panic. He was also bare-chested and giving a final tug to his zipper. Quickly averting her eyes, Kate sat on the stairs and took great gulps of air as she fought the urge to retch.

Michael looked up and smiled. "Hey, Kate, you can stop hyperventilating. I'm decent now."

Kate groaned. What an unbelievable ego this man had! Did he actually think she was panting with lust at the sight of a bare chest and partially undone zipper? Head in hands, she turned and watched as Michael bent over to pick up his shirt. Although his mouth and his mind put her off, she had to admit it was difficult to find fault with the body. Michael had the physique of a runner: the flat chest, taut, muscular belly and not an ounce of surplus fat. It was either a gift from God or--worst case scenario--the result of daily exercise. And she was struggling with simple pre-natal push-ups.

Michael glanced up again while buttoning his shirt. "I assume you were on your way down to warn me about the workmen. Before I talk to the foreman, is there anything else you want to let me know about? Are you planning an open house? A garage sale?"

He had that that amused, condescending grin on his face again.

"Kill the sarcasm, Detective O'Connor," Kate snapped. "I need a little time to adjust to being the target of a mob hit."

"Time we don't have, Miss Cheerful."

Kate stuck out her tongue and headed up the stairs. Her allotted five minutes were up. Now it was time to deal with the nausea. Pausing at the sound of someone knocking at the kitchen door, she glanced back at Michael.

"Probably one of the workmen," he said reassuringly. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried." Which was a lie, but she wasn't going to admit to another brief moment of panic. "If it's the criminals, tell them I'm indisposed at the moment. I've got first dibs on the bathroom."

"Wish I had the time to use it," Michael muttered, shrugging into his shoulder holster and grabbing his jacket.

Jim Pearson had arrived via the back lane way with Michael's suitcase, and with the reassuring news that the bullet in the parking lot had been found and was a match to those used in the homicide. They had their evidence linking Kate's car thieves to the murder. As an added bonus, the fingerprints on and in the car matched those on police files. Now all they had to do was catch the guys.

Jim sat at the kitchen table, ready to discuss the plans for the day, but apparently Michael wasn't in the mood to join him. He was pacing, beating a path from the doorway leading to the dining room to the window above the kitchen sink. Obviously he had something on his mind. Jim figured his partner would eventually fill him in, but decided a little prompting would speed up the process.

"So, buddy, how's it going? Are you and Ms. Sullivan getting along?"

"Great, everything's just great," Michael answered curtly.

Prompting wasn't going to work.

"Glad to hear everything's working out." Jim's eyes followed Michael from the doorway to the window yet again. "So what's with the perpetual motion? Why don't you sit down? You're making me dizzy with the pacing. Are you nervous? Did those guys call last night or make a move?"

"I'm not nervous, I'm uncomfortable. There's only one damn bathroom in this house and she's using it," came the grumpy reply.

"Is that all." Jim laughed as Michael shot him an indignant look. "Okay, you pace and I'll talk. The Chief wants a decoy scenario set up today. He thinks they'll make their move as soon as possible. Figure out where you and Ms. Sullivan are headed and call the station. We'll send undercover cops and some unmarked cars. There's an unmarked car for you parked about a block from here and another car's arriving this morning for Ms. Sullivan. It's a rental and is being hooked up with monitoring and radio surveillance."

"Delivery of rental car? Isn't that a bit unusual?"

"Nope. This particular rental company actually does deliver."

"Don't you think those guys will wonder why Kate isn't using her own car?"

"Let them wonder. I don't care if they figure out the car's been impounded as evidence. If we can't get them on the murder charge, attempted car theft will do. At least Ms. Sullivan can I.D. them on that one."

Conversation came to a halt when Kate entered the kitchen with a cheery hello for Jim. Both men turned with appreciative stares. What a transformation. Wearing blue jeans and a bulky red sweatshirt, Kate's green eyes were bright and friendly, her skin glowing. The tangled curls of the previous night were now soft, loose and shining. As she passed him on her way to the fridge, Michael caught a whiff of some fresh, flowery scent--either perfume or shampoo. Taking note of her good mood as she chatted with Jim, he decided that a shower and some sleep did wonders for Kate's disposition. And then she turned on him.

"Bathroom's free and your bed's not made."

Jim grinned. "Yeah, Michael. Get to it."

"Piss off," Michael grumbled to his partner as he grabbed his suitcase and started out of the room. Stopping at the doorway, he glanced back at Kate. "I haven't talked to the work crew yet and let me be the one to explain the situation."

"Yes, sir."

When he'd gone, Kate turned to Jim with a smile. "Is he always so charming?"

"I can be." A disgruntled shout came from the hallway. "When I feel like it!"

Although he exchanged an amused glance with Kate at Michael's latest display of temper, loyalty to his partner of five years prompted Jim to defend Michael's testy behavior.

"I know Michael can be a pain, Ms. Sullivan." He didn't expect an argument from Kate and didn't get one. "I just want you to know that if it were my life in danger--and it has been, many times--he's the guy I'd want to have around. Michael's one of the best."

"Call me Kate," she urged, joining him at the table and offering orange juice and toast. "I do trust him. I just find him difficult to live with and I gather he doesn't think much of the arrangement either."

Jim nodded. "You're right on that score. He'd rather have a more active role in the investigation."

"So why was he chosen to be the babysitter?"

Jim hesitated, debating whether he should confide in Kate and decided that given the circumstances, there were certain things she should know about Michael. "Kate, I assure you Michael can do the job. This just happened to be a good opportunity to get him off the streets for a while."

Kate's eyes widened. "Go on."

"These past few weeks have been particularly rough for both of us and I think Michael's at the point of burnout. The job is his whole life and it takes its toll. He's a risk taker, always ready to put his life on the line. I do that too, and believe me, it's draining. I have a family, a home life that forces me to put aside the pressure and demands. Michael doesn't, doesn't seem to want one and won't acknowledge or admit how much the job takes out of him."

"This assignment involves danger," Kate pointed out.

"Yeah, well, this time he has a lot of backup and I don't have to worry about him taking off on his own. He has a tendency to put in a lot of unofficial overtime."

Kate smiled. "So this is a rest for Michael?"

"In comparison, yes."

"And I suppose you're hoping some exposure to a "domestic life" might help? Might encourage him to settle down?"

"It couldn't hurt."

"You're barking up the wrong tree, Detective." Kate stood up, smiling over her shoulder as she headed to the counter and began making coffee. "I can provide a few home-cooked meals, but that's it. I'm not exactly in a position to promote the myth of living happily ever after."

Kate assumed--correctly--that Jim was aware of her marital status from the same source as Michael. He smiled sympathetically and tactfully changed the subject. They discussed their respective jobs and the hopeful outcome of the investigation. Out of curiosity, Kate slipped in a few pointed questions about Michael and discovered he'd once been married.

"Michael was going through his divorce about the time we became partners. He didn't talk much about it, but I assume that's one of the reasons he avoids getting involved in any permanent relationship."

"He's gun-shy." Kate understood exactly how Michael felt.

"In a manner of speaking, yes," Jim said with a smile.

"Well, he has nothing to fear from me and don't get your hopes up about any influence I may have. We can't even go five minutes without one of us verbally attacking the other."

Michael breezed into the kitchen at that moment and caught the tail end of Kate's sentence. "I heard the word 'attack'," he said with a grin. "Has Jim met Furball?"

Kate smiled at the reference to his initial encounter with Furball. Apparently Michael was in much better spirits than when he'd left. Clean shaven, hair still damp from a shower and wearing jeans and a baseball jersey, his casual appearance just emphasized his good looks. Michael was the sort of person capable of filling a room simply with his presence, and not just in a physical sense. There was something else. Confidence? Arrogance? Whatever reservations Kate had about his character, she couldn't help but be impressed.

"What have I done now?" Michael asked, noting Kate's prolonged stare.

"Nothing, at least nothing I'm currently aware of," she answered with a smile.

Michael shook his head and winked. "Well, I'll never tell."

Jim observed the smiling exchange with interest. Although according to Kate they weren't getting along, things looked pretty good from where he was sitting. Perhaps Michael had finally met his match.

"Coffee's ready," Kate announced, ending the moment's truce.

Michael rested his tall, lanky frame against the counter, eyeing the rear-view Kate offered as she reached into a cupboard for mugs. He quickly brought his gaze back to eye level when she turned around with a worried look.

"Michael, where's your gun?" There was no shoulder holster visible under his shirt.

Michael gave a mischievous grin and lifted his jersey, revealing the gun tucked into his waistband and exposing his flat stomach with its distinct line of dark, curly hair descending from his chest and disappearing into that same waistband.

"You could have just told me," Kate commented dryly, handing him a mug of coffee.

"That was more fun. More my style, if you like."

"What happened to the gentlemanly behavior?" Jim asked.

"He blew that last night," Kate remarked coolly.

Neither she nor Michael offered any further explanation, leaving Jim to wonder what kind of stunt Michael had pulled in less than twelve hours.

Michael gave her another wink as he pulled down his shirt. "No offense intended, Kate."

"None taken," she replied airily, handing him a plate of toast. "It did nothing for me."

Jim and Kate watched in silence as Michael downed his orange juice and devoured the toast.

"More?" Kate inquired politely.

"No thanks."

Michael pushed back his chair and started toward the kitchen door with his mug of coffee. He stopped suddenly and headed back to the table. With slow, deliberate movements, he pushed in his chair, picked up his plate and carried it over to the sink. Giving Kate a sharp salute, he exited out the back door.

While he was outside conferring with the crew, Kate took advantage of his absence to suggest that perhaps Michael actually work with the men during the day.

"It would be a great cover for him, keep him busy and out of my way," she pointed out.

"I like it."

"Good. You tell him."

Michael came back from his meeting with the foreman looking very pleased with himself and headed straight for the coffeemaker.

"It's all set," he announced. "I'm going to show them the police photos and they'll be on the alert for anyone approaching the house. You'll have some extra protection, Kate. None of them seem too concerned about any danger."

"Well, no wonder, they're not the target. Did you mention anything about not hiring any new men for the duration?"

"Yes, thank you, I did. Good thinking. You're developing the suspicious mind of a cop."

"I'm your partner, remember? And partners share ideas, right?"

"Right. Not much chance of me forgetting, is there?" Michael poured the last bit of coffee into his mug. "Kate, you're going to have to show me how to work this thing. I can't get through the day on two cups of coffee."

"Don't you own a coffeemaker?" Incredible. The man had survival down to the basics.

"Nope. I buy it on the streets or get it at the station. And I'm out of luck on both counts."

Jim refused Kate's offer to stay for another cup of coffee. "I've got to get down to the station."

Ignoring Michael's look of envy, he added, "Before I go, I think you should talk to the foreman again, Michael."

"Why?"

Kate figured this was an opportune moment to make her exit. "I'll be in my office in the front room if you need me."

When she'd gone, Jim broached the idea of Michael working with the crew, quickly pointing out the pros as the look on Michael's face grew suspicious.

"Did Kate have anything to do with this idea?"

"What if she did?"

That had him stumped. It was a good idea, regardless of the source. Kate probably suggested it to get him out of her way. He certainly hadn't earned any brownie points with her so far.

"Done. I'll go speak to him."

"Great. And, hey, Michael, when you're finished repairing this roof, you can start on mine."

Michael growled and took a swing at his partner. Jim simply ducked, laughed and made his escape out the back door.

* * *

Kate emerged from her office an hour later and found Michael staring out the back kitchen window, sipping coffee. Obviously he'd mastered the workings of a coffeemaker.

"I need to talk to you," she said, interrupting his concentration and wondering what he found so fascinating outside.

Standing on tiptoe, she nudged him aside to take a look. Nothing new. Same old trees, shrubs, houses and no men approaching with shotguns.

"What's up?" he asked with a smile, directing his gaze downward. "Other than you on your toes."

Kate glanced up and met a pair of friendly blue eyes. Aware of how close she'd positioned herself to Michael, she hastily stepped back and caught him grinning as he observed her retreat.

"I phoned the office and spoke with my editor," she explained, ignoring his amused look. "He's thrilled with this whole thing and counting on first dibs to the story, although very concerned about my safety."

"Ah, yes, the press. Always ready to kill, or have someone killed, for the sake of a good story."

"Well, I just hope I'm alive for the ending. Since it's my experience, I get to write the article."

"Hey, Kate, you'll be just fine. I promise."

Michael's tone of voice was gentle, reassuring and unexpected. Kate dismissed it with a shrug and continued with her explanation. "I need some files from the office if I'm going to work at home and wondered if I should have them delivered or perhaps you and I could go and pick them up. You know, with me as the decoy."

Michael was amazed that she'd suggested the first outing. Kate certainly wasn't lacking in guts. Of course, she wouldn't be in this predicament if she were. Waiting for a reply, she'd turned those big green eyes on him, full of trust and faith in his ability to protect her. He hadn't been too keen on this decoy option in the first place, and liked it even less now. She looked so small and vulnerable. Risking his life was one thing, risking hers another.

"Well?" she prompted. "Don't you think this would be a great opportunity?"

"You're right, it's a good idea." Michael hoped he sounded equally enthused. If Kate was prepared to go through with this, who was he to put a stop to it? His chances of changing her mind were probably minimal. She had that determined look on her face. Figuring a bit of encouragement was in order, he added, "That was also an excellent idea to have me work with the crew. I'll start tomorrow."

Kate checked for sarcasm and found none.

"Thanks," she said with a smile. "I'll phone my editor and let him know we're coming. You can show me how this new phone works while I'm at it."

Pleased with her unexpected spirit of cooperation, Michael pointed out the caller I.D. feature and the appropriate buttons to push to connect with the police station. He was rewarded with a delighted smile from Kate.

"I love it!" she exclaimed. "I should have bought one ages ago, in spite of Jeffrey's frugal mindset. Now I can screen calls. I'll just see that number and thumb my nose at it."

"Anyone in particular you don't want to hear from?"

"Yup, and it's none of your business."

"Correction. It is my business. I need a list of numbers to match up with the names of people you know who call, so I can rule them out as calls come in."

"Why?" Kate caught the whine in her voice and promptly shut up. A "partner" in a crime investigation does not whine.

"For a very good reason." Michael smiled at Kate's indignant response. So much for the spirit of cooperation. "I'll want to pick up on the extension when any unfamiliar numbers show up."

Kate frowned. "So you'll be listening in on my calls?"

"Just the good ones."

Not a great answer. Now she was really fuming, even gave her foot a good stomp.

"This isn't funny, so get that smirk off your face. I really resent this. You're going to end up knowing every personal thing about me and I know nothing about you."

"You want to know? Just ask."

"No, I don't want to know any more than I have to. I just don't want you knowing about me. I hate this, I really do, and you don't make it any easier when you make fun of the situation. In fact, you make it worse."

Michael sighed. They were squabbling again. Being with Kate was like hanging out with a childhood buddy. One minute getting along famously and the next, arguing about whose turn it was.

"Kate," he said soothingly, trying to calm her down. "I won't listen in on any personal calls."

"You'd better not."

"Let's change the subject."

"Fine."

"Who lives in the house directly behind yours?" He was looking out the window again.

"Carol and Bob Ames, friends of mine. Why?"

"I can't use your front door to come and go, and I can't be sneaking down the lane way from the side street without arousing suspicion from your neighbors. I'm going to check with the Ameses about using their place."

"That's not only inconvenient for them, it's possibly dangerous." Kate was amazed at his gall.

"The risk is minimal and they'll probably be happy to cooperate. It'll help that they're friends of yours. I promise to be as sneaky and furtive as I can."

Kate let it go, knowing Michael would ask them anyway and probably charm Carol and Bob into agreeing to the arrangement.

"They're really nice people," she said instead. "Carol's a close friend and they're one of the few couples who still include me in their social gatherings, unlike some others who consider me an outcast since the separation. I don't think Carol and Jim